


The Healer

by diandrahollman



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 18th Century, Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Allusions to graphic violence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Captivity, Empath John, Historical, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Past Mary Morstan/John Watson, Period-Typical homophobia and related terminology, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-16 17:30:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9282476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diandrahollman/pseuds/diandrahollman
Summary: Sherlock is being held captive by the sadistic Lord Moriarty. John, an Empath, is Lord Moriarty's personal physician (and, effectively, also a captive). When they meet, they might just find the courage to break each other out.





	1. Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> I have never written a historical story before, so forgive my clumsiness. This story takes place in the late 1700s in a sort of alternate universe where some people have magical powers, but still have to live in secret to avoid being accused of witchcraft.
> 
> The plot is based on my memory of a romance novel I read years ago but can't seem to find now. If anyone recognizes it, let me know so I can give proper credit.

It was after one of his men foolishly went too far in his "disciplining" of me that Lord Moriarty first sent for the Healer. I awaited his arrival in a cell that was not my own - I recognized this despite the black cloth sack over my head, the only cloth covering I was allowed although it did nothing to protect my modesty. Not that I had much to begin with. The presence of the hood and the need for a different cell suggested a need for anonymity that intrigued me - or would have had I not been distracted by the pain of my injuries. I writhed helplessly on my stomach, pulling against the shackles that kept me in place, biting the cloth gag in my mouth as my movements did nothing but increase the burning in the bloody lashes crossing my back. I knew I should remain still, but my mind's superior reasoning skills were hardly in full form at that moment. 

I was startled from the painful reverie that had become my entire existence when the heavy metal door of the cell opened. I focused on the sound of the footsteps on the stone floor as the two men entered the cell. The sure footed one was no doubt the guard. The other was broken by the tap of the cane that supported him. The Healer was an old man?

No, I amended. He did not move with the shuffling steps of an infirm elder, but with the limp of one crippled by ailment or injury. 

“Can’t you remove the shackles,” a soft, gently lilting voice asked.

The guard grunted. I did not need to see him to know he was likely shaking his head. I had tried to escape before. Lord Moriarty had no doubt made it clear that I was not to be trusted with even the smallest of freedoms. 

The Healer made a noise that sounded disapproving. “May we at least have some privacy?”

The guard said nothing, but I heard him step out into the hallway before closing the metal door. 

I listened as the Healer propped his cane against the wall and knelt beside me. He did not carry a medicine bag. Odd. Did he carry the tools of his trade in some other way or...

My thoughts scattered as cool hands lifted my own, fingers shorter than my own feeling along each delicate bone in my hands and wrists. I knew he was simply looking for damage, but it had been so long since anyone had touched me with such kindness that it brought tears to my eyes. I was grateful he couldn’t see that.

“I know you cannot speak,” he said quietly. “So I will ask you to squeeze my hands if you understand me.”

I squeezed his fingers as they slipped into my palms. 

“Good. Your back is very badly lacerated. In order to treat you, I will have to touch it. Do you think you can bear it?”

I groaned at the thought. The gag turned the noise to a muffled whine. But I managed to squeeze his fingers.

He squeezed back. “I’m sorry. I will do my best to be gentle.”

His hands slipped from mine and he lifted my head, sliding something soft beneath it. 

“Relax,” he instructed.

I felt his hands hover over the damaged skin, already soothing the heat emanating from the wounds. I wondered if I was already becoming ill with fever.

All thoughts fled my mind as his hands lowered and my entire being was consumed with the fiery pain. I screamed into the gag and clawed at the floor, mindless of anything but the need to get away from the source. But then, just as abruptly as it had begun, the pain vanished. 

I flailed for a moment, my mind struggling to understand what my body was telling me, and I realized that the hands were preventing me from moving, holding me down firmly. 

“Calm,” he soothed, his voice tight. “Easy. Just...stay still.”

I forced myself to still beneath his hands, my mind returning to its former clarity as I felt them move down my back. It was as if they were simply brushing away the hurt in their wake, turning back the clock on my abuse and leaving me unblemished once again. 

Oh. The realization came to me suddenly. This was why he carried no tools. He was more than a healer. He was some sort of sorcerer, able to summon healing powers without need of anything more than his hands. 

My body went slack beneath his touch, a sigh caught behind the gag as he continued his reparations on my naked back. Now that my mind was clearing, I noticed a slight trembling in his fingers. I entertained the possibility that my initial analysis had been correct and he was old, but the trembling seemed to ease with the passing minutes.

The hands lingered longer than was necessary, tracing the ridges of my bones where they could be felt beneath the skin, gently kneading the muscles in my shoulders. 

I bit back a whimper as the hands left me suddenly, feeling deprived of their warmth and kind intentions. I heard the healer's belabored efforts to stand, his cane scraping on the cell floor before finding purchase to support his weight. 

"Thank you," I whispered into the gag, even though I knew he couldn't hear me.


	2. Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the change in the author's note and tags. I have decided when this story is taking place. It is almost exactly 100 years prior to Doyle's original stories, sometime after the American Revolution.

The second time the healer was called for, I had a mere blindfold instead of a hood. The gag had likewise been removed. I knew at least part of the reason for this was the fact that the healer needed access to my face, which I could only imagine was swollen and bruised beyond all recognition. I was not granted reprieve from the shackles, however, even though my broken arm throbbed agonizingly. I didn't dare pull against the restraints this time.

The healer did not bother to ask the guard for any mercies. He did not even object to the presence of the guard - who had no doubt been instructed to remain in the cell in case I attempted to speak.

The healer knelt beside me and gently brushed a lock of blood-matted hair from my forehead with one hand, wordlessly cupping my jaw with the other. I gasped as the swelling immediately reduced, the pain in my jaw receding. 

The healer made a noise like a hiss and the hand on my jaw disappeared. "Can you tell me where it hurts," he asked gently.

"No talking," the guard barked before I could answer.

The healer huffed in displeasure. "I can treat him more easily if I don't have to guess where he is injured," he argued.

The guard said nothing. From the long silence that preceded the healer's sigh of resignation I could assume it was clear he would not be deviating from his orders.

"Right. Simple yes or no then?"

The guard grunted before I could hazard a guess which of us he was speaking to.

The hands cradled my face again, feeling for damage. "Does your head pain you?"

"N...no," I answered hesitantly, not fully trusting the guard to allow me this.

"Dizziness?"

"No," I said a bit more confidently.

His fingers trailed down my neck. "Does it hurt to breathe?"

"Yes."

He laid his palms gently just beneath my collarbone and brushed downward. He didn't apply any pressure, but I couldn't suppress a whimper when he found the spot where my ribs were no doubt broken. The whimper turned to a cry as the pain flared red-hot and I thought I could feel my bones shift beneath the skin. I wasn't quite far gone enough to miss the healer's groan, nor the breathless quality of his voice as he encouraged me to breathe and relax while the pain receded. I welcomed the distraction and turned my focus on him as he laid his hands on my bruised abdomen. The pain there was minor by comparison, but I felt the sharp bite of it as it was banished by the healer's strange magic. In the same moment it lifted, I heard him hiss as one stifling a more overt acknowledgement of distress.

"I know your arm pains you, but do you have any other injuries?"

His hands remained on my abdomen as he spoke and I found I was loathe to answer and give him cause to remove them. I greedily indulged in the warmth of the gentle touch, marveling at the strange, faint spark of desire I could feel beneath the still-present discomfort. I knew it was irrational - my body simply craving a touch that brought pleasure instead of mere relief from torment - but I couldn't help *wanting* it.

The guard made an impatient noise, startling me with the reminder of his presence. "No," I answered.

I concentrated on the healer as he transferred his soothing touch to my damaged right arm, wrapping careful fingers around the limb on either side of the break. I felt a warmth emanate from the places he touched before the white hot, wrenching agony of my bones realigning commanded my attention. I shouted as it overwhelmed me.

This time, however, I was focused enough as my clarity returned to catch the healer's pained groan. I turned my focus toward him, noting how the grip of his right hand had become significantly weaker than his left - odd, as the opposite had been true before. He was taking deliberate breaths that trembled slightly on each exhale.

He wasn't just erasing the pain of my injuries, I realized. He was somehow taking it onto himself.

The discovery both horrified and humbled me. I felt guilty for craving his touch, knowing that my pleasure came only at the consequence of his suffering. But he chose to use this incredible gift this way...didn't he? Was he treating me for the same reason any healer cared for the wounded? A calling to ease the suffering of fellow human beings? Or did Lord Moriarty hold some sway over him? Was he just as much a prisoner as I was? Was this a particularly cruel way in which Lord Moriarty was torturing him?

His hands lingered again as he recovered, thumbs making small circles on the tender skin of my inner arm, sending tiny shivers through me.

I thought I felt his fingers brush my cheek before I heard him reach for his cane.

"Thank you," I whispered.

I knew by his hesitation as he stood that he'd heard me, even if he didn't respond.


	3. John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place after the unseen gang rape of a prisoner (Sherlock) by some guards. It also mentions the death of a cannon character (Mary) years before the story began. You have been warned.

(John)

Lord Moriarty had always been a sick, sadistic man. I had spent nearly five miserable years in his employ. No, that wasn't the right word. Five years of indentured servitude. I may have had the illusion of freedom, but in truth I was his slave.

I didn't realize any of this at first, of course. I had happily accepted the position of his personal physician, caring for him and the steady stream of visiting friends and family members (only one of which, I would later find out, was actually related to him). He paid me generously - especially when he discovered my natural healing abilities - more than enough to care for my growing family.

After my wife died in childbirth things began to change. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he let the benevolent veneer he presented the world crumble away, revealing his true nature to me. He knew that by the time I fully comprehended the sort of monster he really was, I would be far too indebted to him to turn against him and risk his wrath. In exchange for my silence and obedience, he provided wet nurses and, later, nannies to help care for my daughter. He gave her a life I could not have provided alone. 

I gradually came to welcome the pain I absorbed when I healed one of Moriarty's victims. I told myself I deserved to suffer for my cowardice.

I didn't know what the captive Moriarty called the bane of his existence had done to deserve his fate. I wasn't even told his name. But from the moment I first touched him I felt a spark of something I hadn't felt in years. I had long denied that I harbored desires for members of my own sex, but I could not deny that some part of me desired this particular man. I didn't see his face until the second time - and even then his eyes were hidden from me - but what I could see told me he was beautiful. Lord Moriarty and his men could not tarnish that no matter how badly they beat him or stripped away his dignity by keeping him naked and chained like an animal. I couldn't put into words what it was, exactly, that made me desire this poor wretched creature, but I was drawn to him like a moth to a torch.

The problem with that analogy is that, in the end, the moth always burns.

The next time Moriarty called on me to care for the man, he merely told me that his guards had gotten "a bit carried away." This not being much different from his usual explanation, I wasn't really sure what to expect.

The reappearance of the hood confirmed that its presence had more to do with keeping him in the dark than concealing his features from me. After all, why would he hide his captive from me if he knew I wouldn't tell anyone the details of his...business?

Only the man's right arm was shackled this time, as his left had been dislocated at the shoulder and was almost certainly useless to him for the time being. His entire body seemed to be marred by deep bruising, although I couldn't see much of his torso as he had curled into himself as tightly as his long limbs would allow. What he couldn't hide were the scratches on his back, the deep purple bruises on his hips and the blood streaking his thighs, all of which made the nature of his ill use quite clear.

"May we have some privacy," I asked the guard, not even bothering to try to hide the contempt I was sure reflected on my face. I didn't know he was one of the men who had participated in the prisoner's defiling, but I didn't know he wasn't.

The guard, undaunted, sneered and grunted "five minutes."

"It will take me that long just to set his shoulder. I will call you when I am finished."

For a moment I expected the guard to strike me and I flinched as he made a move toward me. But he hesitated, likely considering how valuable I was to his boss, and fell back. "You best remember your place around here," he snarled impotently before leaving the cell, closing the door behind him.

I do every day, I thought wretchedly. 

The man whimpered as I knelt beside him. Assuming he was too lost in his suffering to understand my attentions, I offered some hasty reassurances while I folded my cloak and slipped it beneath his head.

"I have to reposition your arm before I can treat it," I warned him. "I'm sorry, but it will hurt. Can you bear it?"

He whined softly and made a garbled noise. Oh. He had been gagged again.

"Sorry." I reached for his good, shackled hand. "Squeeze if you understand."

I could feel the tremor in his fingers as they clutched at mine and a hollow ache settled in my chest. It didn't matter what he had done to offend Lord Moriarty, real or perceived. No human being deserved such treatment.

I positioned my hands and braced myself. "Take a deep breath," I instructed, waiting for him to exhale before rotating the arm back into its proper place.

He cried out and pulled so hard at his chain that I feared the other arm would dislocate. I held him steady until he calmed, shushing him. Then I braced myself again, this time for entirely different reasons. 

'It had to be the left shoulder, didn't it,' I thought bitterly. I closed my eyes and concentrated on the damaged tissues in the shoulder, willing the swelling to go down. Pain exploded in my own shoulder, white hot, much as it had when that musket ball had torn into it. I bit back a shout and somehow managed not to collapse on him when it was over.

I massaged his arm as I recovered my strength, both to soothe him and stall a bit while I mentally prepared myself for the next part.

I sat back and reached for his hips. My fingers barely grazed his bare skin before he struck my hands away with his free - but still weakened - arm.

"Shh...it's all right. I won't hurt you." I lightened my touch, slowed my movements, but he continued to slap at my hands, making small, garbled noises of distress through the sack and gag.

'To hell with this,' I thought as I changed course and ripped the sack from his head. 

He stilled in surprise and winced at the sudden change in light. I tugged the gag from his mouth and leaned close, looking into the most dazzling eyes I had ever seen. Not just because they had such an odd mixture of color that they barely matched each other, but because they held a depth and understanding beyond his apparent years.

"I know it hurts," I murmured. "But you need to trust me."

He looked at the door of the cell to reassure himself that we were alone before attempting to speak, his voice strained and hoarse. "Know...you...feel it."

My hand moved instinctively to his throat, intent on repairing the damage. He flung himself backward as best he could and slapped at my hand again.

"Don't," he spit.

I sighed. "Feel what?"

"Pain...when you...heal me, you...feel it," he struggled to say. He reached for my left shoulder, but was obviously too weak yet and had to settle for resting his hand near my elbow. 

He knew of my abilities? "How do you..."

"Try to...hide it," he interrupted, already answering my question before I could finish it. "But...obvious."

I stared into those eyes and realized that it wasn't fear that made him stop me. It was shame and humiliation. He didn't want me to know of the violation he had suffered.

I caught his hand and trapped it between my own gently. "I know. It wasn't your fault. They forced themselves on you. You cannot blame yourself for what they did."

He sighed and - for a moment - seemed to forget his pain in favor of his annoyance. "Know...that."

"Then why won't you let me help you?"

"Not...lethal. Moriarty...testing you."

"Testing me?"

"Or using...me to hurt...you. 'f you...heal me he...wins."

There was a certain cold logic to that. But I was a healer. I couldn't just stand by and watch someone suffer when I could do something about it. "That might well be true, but you are wrong about it not being lethal. You are bleeding. And from the amount of blood I'd wager that you are torn badly. Your bowels could be ruptured. Infection could set in. Please, let me treat you."

He hesitated, his eyes searching my face like he was looking for verification of my words. Slowly, he released my hand.

"Thank you." Not knowing when the guard would choose to come back, I moved quickly, coaxing him to uncurl from his fetal position. I placed my hands very low on his abdomen, my palms pressing gently against his pubic bone, apologizing as he sucked in a sharp breath. "Deep breath." 

I took a deep breath myself and focused the energy through my hands and into his body. 

It felt like being torn open. Like being stabbed repeatedly by a dull instrument until the tender flesh gave way.

He sobbed and some part of me that was still aware of my surroundings realized he might be reliving the horror of his violation as each tear and bruise was mended. I forced myself to keep going. Better to have him feel the pain now than let it fester and worsen.

He was still making small noises as the pain eased and awareness returned to me. That's when I realized that it wasn't the physical pain that distressed him. It was the degradation. The hopelessness.

Unfortunately, this was something I could not cure. I could only gather him in my arms in a pitiful attempt at comfort while my own heart ached in sympathy. "There now," I murmured. "It's..." I bit my tongue before I could make any assurances we both knew to be false. He was still a prisoner. In all probability, this would happen to him again. My erasing his wounds ultimately did little to alleviate his suffering. I looked at the gorgeous, seemingly innocent creature in my arms and wished - as I had countless times before - that I had the courage to stand up to Lord Moriarty.

The man looked up at me in wonder, reaching to cup my cheek with his trembling, untethered hand. "Beautiful," he murmured. 

I huffed out a surprised laugh and muttered "must've missed an infection somewhere. You're delirious."

The guard banged on the door impatiently, reminding me that I didn't have the luxury of time.

"I have to..."

I set him down carefully, retrieving my cloak and reaching for the gag. I hesitated before putting it back in as I realized I didn't know when he would ever have the opportunity to speak so freely again. "What is your name?" Hardly the most important question, but it was a start.

"Sherlock," he croaked. 

I debated healing his throat despite his protests as listening to him speak was painful, but he was right. It wasn't fatal. And it was unlikely I would have even noticed had I not removed the gag. Would Moriarty know we had spoken if I treated it?

"Hoy," the guard shouted, startling me into action. "Almost finished," I called. I pressed the cloth into Sherlock's mouth and secured it, allowing myself a moment of indulgence to run my thumb over his lower lip. 

"John," I answered, even though he never asked.

He smiled as much as he was able before I tugged the cloth sack back over his head.


	4. John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be forewarned: I didn't tag this fic with a "graphic depictions of violence" warning because, while Sherlock does suffer a lot of violence, I only show the aftermath. This chapter will deal with the before and after of a gruesome encounter with a sadistic guard. If you are especially squeamish, you might want to avert your eyes.

The next time I saw Sherlock all four of his limbs had been broken. I had been right to question whether he would be able to speak as the guard never left the cell, affording me no chance to remove the ever present hood, which was loosely held in place by a collar. He had been chained to the wall by his neck like an animal.

I spoke to him while I treated him even though he couldn't reply. I told him what I was doing before I did it and apologized and offered reassurances and reminders to breathe when he screamed and made garbled, indistinct noises around the gag. I rubbed his chest and arms under the guise of stimulating the blood, but really I just wanted to give him a touch that didn't bring pain.

I realized the folly in this when I finished healing the final break in his left leg and accidentally brushed his cock with my wrist while massaging his thigh. It twitched and he inhaled sharply.

The guard, who had been watching with vague disinterest, laughed and said something in a language that sounded Slavic while making a crude gesture in front of his groin.

I decided to pretend it hadn't happened. I laid Sherlock's leg back on the floor and reached for my cane. 

The guard said something else and Sherlock's hands fumbled for me, still weak from their recent injury. The guard marched over and grabbed Sherlock's nearest hand, wrenching it back so viciously that he yelped. 

"Hoy," I protested.

The guard wrapped his other hand around Sherlock's exposed manhood and tugged cruelly. I didn't understand his next words, but the gestures combined with his suggestive leer and tone made his meaning clear. 

I shook my head. "No." 

The guard said something else I guessed what some sort of challenge. 

"No," I repeated firmly, reaching for my cane again, desperate to flee before this went any further. 

Sherlock reached for the hood with his other hand, muffled voice seemingly pleading for something. The guard grabbed the hand and I heard a sickening crunch. Sherlock cried out.

"Stop," I protested. 

The guard ignored me, directing his next words at Sherlock. Sherlock nodded slowly and the guard dropped his hands so he could reach for the hood. He stopped for a moment, his meaty fingers twisted in the material, and growled what was unmistakably a warning. Sherlock nodded and the hood and gag were removed none too gently. His eyes, though uncovered, remained tightly shut. 

Sherlock cleared his throat and licked at his chapped lips before attempting to speak. "He...he wants you to prove that you are a real man."

"What, by raping you," I spit.

The guard spoke again, ignoring me. 

"He says I'm nothing more than a whore." Sherlock swallowed, obviously struggling to translate the vile words. "He is inviting you to share in their spoils. To use me as they do."

I didn't know how I had stumbled into this ridiculous play, but everything in my being was screaming for me to flee. I may have been drawn to the man, but I did not want this. "Tell him I'm not a sodomite."

Sherlock translated in the guard's language. The guard laughed and pinched Sherlock's chin between his fingers as he replied. 

"He says you can..."

"Use your mouth instead," I interrupted despairingly. "Yes, I got the idea."

"You have considered it. I've seen it in your eyes. I have felt it in your touch. You say you are not a sodomite, but you desire me." He tried to keep his voice level, as if he were still explaining the guard's terms to me, but I could hear the fear in his voice. He didn't want to be left alone with the brute. 

I reached for his hand, ostensibly so I could heal his wrist, but also in a futile effort to offer him comfort. I hissed as I felt the echo of the delicate bones realigning. 

The guard sneered and snatched Sherlock's hand from mine almost before I could finish healing it, securing both of his wrists with the ever present chains bolted to the wall. They argued briefly and then the guard took a handful of Sherlock's curly hair and yanked viciously. He yelped and babbled some words that sounded like a plea for mercy as he was dragged up onto his knees. 

I wanted to protest what was happening, but I feared anything I said would only make the situation worse.

"You can leave," Sherlock said with a forced calm as the guard shortened the chains, stretching his arms behind his back. "He won't hurt you."

The guard finished securing him and stepped back, gesturing at Sherlock and grabbing at his own crotch. I swallowed my revulsion before I did something I regretted.

"No, but he will hurt you."

Sherlock said nothing, which was itself a confirmation. I could not in good conscience leave him knowing the sadist was unlikely to even wait until I was far enough away to be spared the screams. Would they even call me back to treat the damage or would he be just careful enough to make that unnecessary?

I approached Sherlock slowly and cupped his cheek in the hand not holding my cane. I brushed my thumb delicately over one tightly closed eyelid, remembering the mesmerizing color I had seen in their depths before. "What did he threaten to do if you opened your eyes," I asked quietly. 

He winced. "Cut them out."

I wondered if the guard was sadistic enough to be waiting eagerly for Sherlock to slip so he could follow through on that threat. I suspected he was. I didn't want to risk it. I retrieved the cloth gag from the cell floor and tied it around his head, covering his eyes. I felt him relax a little, then startle as the guard spoke again. 

"He wants you to get on with it."

I huffed out a breath. "Tell him I will do it if he promises not to touch you after."

"He won't make that promise. You have no leverage."

I clenched my jaw. He was right. "So, what? I'm supposed to violate you for his entertainment and then leave so he can rape you straight after?"

"I told you you could leave," he said quietly, resigned to his fate. 

No. This was absurd. I cast about frantically for a solution that would spare us both. Finally, in desperation, I shifted my grip on my cane and spun toward the guard. 

"No, John! Think of your daughter!"

I stopped, the cane half-raised. 'How does he know about my daughter,' I thought before the guard's fist smashed into the side of my head and I staggered sideways, my cane slipping from my fingers. I heard Sherlock scream "no" before the guard swung at me again and everything went dark.

*****************

I awoke to the sound of whimpering. 

It took me some time to recall where I was and how I had come to be there with such an ache in my head. I struggled to open my eyes and lift my head, squinting at the blurred lump across the cell. It moved and made a wet, gagging sound.

"Sherlock?" I dragged myself onto my hands and knees and crawled toward him. 

When everything stopped wobbling and I got a good look at him, I stopped crawling, leaned to one side and vomited.

"No," I moaned, rubbing my throbbing forehead, willing myself to wake from this nightmare. But the pathetic sounds of distress didn't stop. I was sure I would never forget the horrid noises he made - more like a wounded animal than a human.

His wrists were still shackled, though the chain was once more drawn out to its full length, affording him enough lead to curl his arms in front of his ruined face in a futile effort to hide it. Or perhaps to protect it from further damage.

Whether he had opened his eyes or not, the sadistic guard had made good on his threat and slashed Sherlock's eyes. But that apparently hadn't been enough. He had also cut out the poor man's tongue. This was made painfully clear by the blood issuing from his mouth with each wretched choking noise.

I approached him slowly, swallowing the screams of horror and rage that threatened. I reached out to him, then hesitated, my hand hovering over his arm.

"Sherlock," I called. 

He whimpered. 

"It's me, I..." my voice cracked and I swallowed thickly. I touched him gently and felt him shudder. 

His hands, which had been wrapped one around the other, unfolded to reveal something he held in his palm. It was his own severed tongue.

I closed my eyes and fought a second wave of sickness. I had heard of such savagery being committed by our enemies during my time as a soldier, but had counted myself lucky to not have witnessed such barbarism with my own eyes.

A calm came over me then as I realized the gift the guard had unwittingly given me. Had he taken the tongue as a trophy I may not have been able to help. I had never attempted to re-grow appendages and I doubted my abilities extended so far. But by leaving it, the guard had ensured that I could fix it, even if the process would be exceedingly unpleasant for both of us.

I bent close to him, resting one hand on his arm. "I can reattach it. Will you let me?"

He whimpered in distress, but nodded shakily. 

"I'm so sorry. I promise I'll be quick."

I plucked the severed muscle from his hand and took a moment, as I identified its original orientation, to decide how best to accomplish the task without him accidentally biting my fingers off. I coaxed him to open his mouth and apologized again as I set it back in place and he gagged.

"Don't swallow," I instructed before pressing my thumbs on either side of the intact root, cupping his jaw in my hands and channeling the healing energy into him, visualizing the torn halves of muscle stitching themselves back together.

He howled and clawed at me, his teeth clamping down on my thumbs, but the pain of that was drowned by the agony of feeling as if the entire lower half of my face had caught fire. I yelled with him and nearly collapsed on top of him when it was over. He coughed and gagged and spit blood on the floor.

"Joh..." he tried to say roughly between gasps. 

"It's all right," I panted. "Don't talk."

The relief I felt at hearing him attempt to speak was coupled with dread of knowing I wasn't finished yet.

I let him catch his breath, gently nudging him onto his back when the danger of him choking passed. I pushed his hair back from his face and tried to determine the extent of the damage, murmuring apologies as he whimpered in pain. It didn't look like the eyes had been gouged entirely, just sliced clean across. I touched the cuts to the skin near the corners and hissed at the accompanying burn, snatching my hand back as he flinched for fear or hurting him further.

"I think I can fix the damage to your eyes, but I can't guarantee your sight will be restored."

"Mahke 'ou...blin..." 

"No. I won't go blind." I had no way of knowing if that was really true, but I hadn't suffered any lasting effects from healing others yet.

He made a tiny, distressed noise and nodded. 

I took a deep breath. "All right. Keep your eyes closed." I lay my hands carefully over his closed eyes.

This time, as the burn encompassed us both, he managed to keep his hands down, though I suspected this had more to do with exhaustion than a marked decrease in pain. He had endured more than could be expected of any man. It was a miracle his body hadn't simply given out already.

I blinked tentatively as the fire receded, my blurred vision slowly clearing. "Keep your eyes closed," I panted.

When he didn't respond, I realized he had lost consciousness. I made sure he was still breathing before sitting back and fully assessing the position I found myself in. The guard had left. I didn't have to try to the door to know I would find it locked. It would be a while before anyone realized I had been left there. And what would happen then? I didn't care what happened to me, but what of my daughter? Molly could take care of her, but would they be safe? And what of Sherlock? I hardly knew him, but if Lord Moriarty knew of the risk I had taken to defend him...

I sat leaning against the wall and pulled Sherlock's body into my arms. Worrying about the possibilities was a futile endeavor. There was nothing I could do for the time being but wait.


	5. Sherlock - unfinished

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT NOTE: I'm sorry, but I'm afraid this story is going to remain unfinished. My muse abandoned this story months ago and all efforts to bring her back and attempt to continue have only caused me anxiety. Re-reading what I have written so far is like reading something written by a stranger. I will post what I have left, but I couldn't even figure out how to finish this chapter. I have tried many times to do AT LEAST THAT and failed every single time. I knew where this story was going once, but since I no longer remember how I planned to get there and it is basically a lot like the plot of the last Twilight book with Rosie developing abilities that prompts John to fight and escape...yeah. So...to the readers who have somehow found this story: thank you for all the enthusiasm and kudos and I'm sorry I couldn't follow through.

I woke up slowly, reluctantly, feeling as if I had been trampled by a horse. I groaned.

"Shh," a voice whispered near my ear. 

John. As I became more aware of my surroundings I could feel his arms around me, cradling me against his body. He had wrapped me in his ever-present cloak. Even though I knew we must still be in Lord Moriarty's dungeon, I felt safe and warm.

I opened my eyes, blinking against the faint light coming through the barred window high on the wall. John's blurred features swam before me dizzyingly before I closed my eyes again. I could see, I realized with relief. Not very well, and only time would tell if that would improve, but I wasn't blind. I opened and closed my mouth a couple times, flexing my tongue, testing it. It felt swollen and odd in my mouth.

"Softly," John warned.

"India or America," I asked. It was a question I had been puzzling over since the first time he had entered my cell. 

"Sorry?"

I cleared my throat gently, wincing at the lingering taste of blood. "You were a soldier, wounded in battle some years ago. India or the American Colonies?"

"America. How did you know..."

"Simple really. Everything about you from the way you dress to your general demeanor says former soldier. Army doctor, I'd wager. If you hadn't been injured no doubt you would be in France right now."

"I was going to ask how you knew about my daughter."

I blinked at him. His face was slowly becoming clearer, but I still couldn't quite make out his expression. "Oh. You have been in Lord Moriarty's employ for some time, but he does not consider you a confederate. You have moral objections to the way the guards treat me, yet you allow them to address you as a subordinate. A healer would never tolerate such circumstances willingly, so Moriarty must hold some sort of power over you. Your unnatural abilities - and the threat of being hanged for practicing witchcraft - might be enough. But a soldier would value the lives of others above his own. You are protecting somebody who depends on you. Could be a wife. More likely a child, who would become an orphan were anything to happen to you."

"That's...incredible," John breathed.

"Mmm. You are not the only one whose talents Moriarty has found a way to exploit." I briefly considered attempting to sit up, but just the thought of it was exhausting. My body had taken too great a beating in recent hours and John's arms were a most welcome respite. "He's a collector. He collects people with unique abilities. We are like pets to him, but far more valuable. He keeps me for my mind, for the challenge I represent. You he keeps for far more obvious reasons." I wonder how much he knows about the others. About the woman who can sense others emotions and intentions so well that she often knows what they will do before they do themselves. About the old woman Lord Moriarty seeks council from regularly because he believes she really can see the future. About the man he kept a close watch on despite being afraid to let him too close as objects around him tended to levitate when he became angry.

"You said he was testing me. Using you to hurt me. What did you mean?" 

I rest my hand on his arm, feeling the shift of muscles beneath the skin. "How much do you know about your ability? Obviously you can control it, but what are your limits?"

"I...I don't know."

"Lord Moriarty is obviously keen to find out. No doubt he will be thrilled to hear of this latest demonstration of your powers. Next time, he won't leave the part of my body he removes to see if you can reproduce it. Probably an arm. I doubt he would risk taking away my ability to speak again."

He cringes, obviously horrified. "I don't understand why he would risk you at *all* if he values you so much. You could bleed to death before I have a chance to treat you."

"I am only valuable to him so long as I present an intellectual challenge. I have exceptional observational skills and can use them to identify people like you with supernatural abilities, but that skill isn't as useful as, say, a soothsayer or a healer. Once he has broken my mind and my spirit as thoroughly as he has my body I will no longer be of use to him."

John looked as if he might be sick again. "He...he expects me to fail."

"Eventually. He has been careful so far. His guards know they can do anything they want with me, but he has vowed to skin anyone who delivers a death blow. He wants to have that pleasure himself once he's finished with me."

I felt John's arms tighten around me, his voice breaking as he said "no, I can't..."

"That's what makes his plan so perfect. You are a soldier and a healer. He knows you will do everything within your power to save me. He probably suspects your desire for me as well, which gives further motivation."

He swallowed thickly, reigning in his horror and disgust. "Why does he hate you so?"

"He doesn't. In fact, I think this is some perverse way of proving the opposite. He desires me too, and the very thought of acting on those desires repulses him. He cannot have me as his equal, so he seeks to destroy me once he has proved himself superior."

John was quiet for a long time, his eyes firmly closed. Obviously struggling to accept this knowledge. I forced myself to sit up. I was too exhausted to get very far, so I just leaned on the wall beside John. He didn't attempt to stop me.

"I cannot keep doing this," John finally whispered. "I cannot remain quiet and obedient while he tortures a man to death."

"You could try to escape with your daughter."

"How far could I run? How long could I hide once he makes it publicly known that I practice witchcraft?" John made a noise of frustration and balled his hands into fists. "He's done it before. A man named Anderson. He could control objects with his mind. Lord Moriarty offered a similar arrangement to what he has with me - a partnership, he calls it. Anderson refused."

So he did know about the others. "Anderson was an idiot. He could barely control his power. It was only a matter of time before somebody noticed and had him arrested. Moriarty merely hastened the inevitable. Obviously you have been hiding your talent for years even while working as a doctor. You could hide from his wrath."

John shook his head, his eyes once more open, but trained on the closed cell door. "I can't just leave you here to die. And I can't put Rose in that sort of danger."

Rose. I thought I had heard that name before around the castle, but I never realized she was a child.

"Her father is employed by a lunatic. She is already in danger. And you cannot stay out of some ridiculous sentiment."

"It is not sentiment. Pardon me if I cannot bear the thought of an innocent suffering a death I could have prevented."

With a small surge of energy I reached for him, turning his head and meeting his lips in a desperate kiss. "I am not an innocent," I murmured.

He pushed me away almost reluctantly and said "don't." The conflict within him was obvious. I had seen - or more often heard and felt - it before.

"Interesting. Even without a guard present you feel it necessary to deny your desire for me. Is it because you are religious? You fear acting on your desires will condemn you to eternal damnation?"

"I'm..."

"No, that's not quite accurate. You were raised Christian, but war has shaken your faith. The church may have instilled in you a fear of acting on your illicit desires, but your fears reside in this life, not the next. You think it makes you weak. You are ashamed and you are afraid that if others knew of your perversions..."

"Stop," he spit, massaging his forehead as if it ached. "Don't make me regret restoring your tongue."

I closed my mouth. I didn't need to finish the thought out loud. I had already concluded that he didn't fear death itself so much as he feared it would separate him from his daughter.


End file.
